It's a mad, mad world
by nekomode
Summary: Glimpses into the mind of one Sherlock Holmes. Or not. Johnlock. Spoiler up to His Last Vow. Status: on temporary hiatus, waiting for season 4.
1. Prologue in hell

**Prologue in Hell**

"You really don't know when to give up, do you?" Moriarty whines incessantly in his head with John's voice. The throbbing thing inside his chest constricts every time he hears it. How annoying.

_The game is still on, isn't it? Concentrate, James, or is it Stephen now? You don't happen to know a Sherlock, do you?_

Shut up John.

.

.

.

All is quiet again. He almost prefers it to the clutter that is his mind palace these days.

Almost.

The night is falling fast and so is the temperature. Fleetingly, he wonders what the Americans were thinking when they built a city in the middle of a desert.

It's snowing again, he belatedly realizes as white snowflakes swarm his vision. Pretty little snowflakes with their kaleidoscopic colours slowly dye blood-red into a gentler pink, into another **DEAD END**.

He walks away from it all.

* * *

One would wonder how a nameless cabbie in London caught the attention of a criminal mastermind like Jim Moriarty. The missing link, as it turned out, was Lucy Ferrier - the de facto leader of the American branch of Moriarty's web. She was also, incidentally, an old flame of one Jefferson Hope.

Famed as "The Flower of Kildimo" in her youth, Ferrier, then Lucy Moran, had enchanted many young men with her not insignificant beauty. However, she had never fallen in love herself until she met Hope.

As a young man, Jefferson Hope had a distinct lack of aneurysm and greying hair. However, in spite of his typical country boy appearance, Hope was, without a doubt, a proper genius. It was with his brilliant mind that he managed to capture the heart of young Lucy Moran.

Alas, tragedy befell on the Ferrier family: her mother died of a heart attack. Young Lucy was adopted by her mother's brother, John Ferrier, and moved away to Utah, ending her romance with Hope quite abruptly.

Years later, when Lucy Ferrier had achieved high standing among the underworld inhabitants as a part of the Spider's web, Hope had asked her to help him find a sponsor.

Poor Lucy, with her sceptical mind and her sentimental heart, had unknowingly led them both to early graves when she introduced Hope to Moriarty.

Well, earlier graves, if you're going to be nit-picking about it, John.

Tracking the last known location of Ferrier had been surprisingly easy, considering that she was an important figure in the American underworld even in retirement. Unfortunately, she took her last breath when he attempted to extract _(good or not, it was a necessary evil, so shut up John!)_ the information about Moriarty's web out of her, dying of, out of all things, a heart attack, bringing along with her any chance for this whole messy business to end in anything less than a three-year-or-more self-exile.

How dull.

How dreadfully boring.

It is in time like this that he yearns for a shot, or for the real John. Just a bit of John would be fine.

Just one shot and it would all be fine again, _but that will really be a bit not good, _so he didn't.

Absentmindedly, he starts to scratch his needle-marked vein, hoping to draw blood.

He is fine, really.

All fine.

* * *

_It's snowing outside, again._

Thank you, John, for stating the obvious.

_I just thought that maybe you could use some company. You know how you look sad when you think I'm not looking._

True. He can do with some of John right now, even an imaginary one. There's only so much one could do hanging in a terrorist cell for four days on ends without sleep before exploding with BOREDOM. God, he's BORED BORED BORED!

"Behave, Luke. Or else I will tell Mummy about it."

Oh great, Mycroft is here, too, though this Mycroft looks a bit too chubby to fit through the door to this cell. Must be another hallucination then. How nice. His mind had conjured up Mycroft. How utterly terrifying. It would only be marginally better had Moriarty appeared instead.

"Hello, sexy." A saucy voice rings out inside his head to go with the grey Westwood suit, of which Moriarty has always seemed so fond, that suddenly materialises right before his eyes, suspiciously barred of Moriarty himself. It suddenly comes to him that they had never found Moriarty's body.

A belated sense of panic tries to rouse him from the hazy fog that had decided to settle in his mind palace. It's fine. He tells himself. Jim had blown his own brain off right before his eyes. It's kind of hard to fake that. Brain matters don't usually get splattered on the tiles in fake suicide, after all. He should know. Jim Moriarty is dead, just as Sherlock Holmes is dead. That particular psychotic game of chess had already ended in his favour. John is fine and well. Mycroft said so.

_Mycroft said a lot of things. He also said the same about Redbeard, didn't he? Oh, are you panicking now? What a hilarious thing to do! Your decidedly adorable pet had made you DULL, Victor! Remember, caring is not an advantage! Love is a chemical defect found on the losing side. You said so yourself!_

Shut up. Everything is fine. John is fine. ALL IS FINE. SHUT UP!

_BORING! Oh how dull you have allowed yourself to become, Julian! I am SOOO disappointed in you!_ The Moriarty suit manages to taunt him one last time before finally disappearing. How predictable of it.

Good ridden.

It's quiet. The fog has settled back again. The John-shaped shadow in his mind palace's basement is looking more and more enticing by the minute. He decides to indulge himself. After all, there's only so much one can do to amuse himself in a prison cell.

He tries to deduce what John and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade and Mummy and Dad are doing right then._ Making tea, obviously. They all seem so fond of it. How typically British of them._ Are they well? Have they moved on already? _Of course not! John would still be crying buckets and buckets for Sherlock who is dead, deAD, DEAD._ What kind of life he is leading right now? _ What life? He's been away!_ What kind of girlfriend is he having right now? Another dull one, most likely.

As he answers his own question_s_, his empty stomach churns uncomfortably. The throbbing thing inside his chest is acting up again. How annoying. Transport should just stay transport. It just wouldn't do if it starts to influence his mind palace, would it?

_(except that it had already did just that. He knows that well, but to admit it to himself, even in the relative safety of his own head, is to admit that maybe, just maybe, he is really losing, that the fake fall had become THE FINAL GOODBYE, and Sherlock Holmes is nothing more than a dead man walking, killed by his own sceptical mind and _sentimental heart_.)_

When will the real Mycroft finally decide to get his arse out of his precious Diogenes Club and send his people here to gloat in his face? Or when will his captors be back? Maybe he should tell Dumb Muscle about his cheating wife. It will stave off The Boredom for a little while, if anything.

God, he will do anything to not get bored, because even physical pain is better than the terrifyingly empty siLenCE inside his own head riGhT nOw_

In the end, the only thing he can do is to wait.

* * *

This is not the first time that he has an urge to smash the smug expression out of Mycroft's face, nor will it be the last either. Just look at him: all fine and dandy in his warm woollen coat and his damnably perfect Serbian, propping his legs on the table and watching his blood brother getting tortured. He swears to himself that these days, he will finally be able to get back at Mycroft. He will stab him at his weak point, at where it hurts the most, twist the knife and leave him there bleeding. It will be glorious and wonderful, a fitting end for Mycroft Holmes, for The Ice Man.

Caring is not an advantage indeed.

"Sorry, but the holiday's over, brother mine. Back to Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes." Mycroft drawls in his ears. How disgusting. He thinks he might have to shower twice now.

What.

The mission isn't over yet, and you know that, Mycroft! There are still some parts of the Spider's web that he hasn't managed to unravel yet, but London's in trouble and that means John and Mrs Hudson and Lestrade and maybe John's girlfriend are in trouble and he can't let them die yet, not yet! He has to meet them one last time, to show them how brilliant and amazing he has been, dismantling Moriarty's web, all on his own! John can't possibly handle another loss after Sherlock's death! It will break him!

Oh.

Oh.

He can meet them all again._ (Stupid! He has been particularly slow today. It must be the infection-induced fever interfering with his brain. That won't do at all! The matter must be address immediately. STOP!)_ He can return back to London with all its lovely crime scenes and marvellous cabbies and the necessary evil that is takeaways and he can escape this mind numbing BOREDOM. He can meet them all again. Sherlock Holmes can be alive again. He can finally, finally meet John again.

He allows himself a satisfied smile as these thoughts circle his head like a mantra. Sod Mycroft and his deductions.

He can come back to 221B Baker Street, to **home **again...

* * *

_(and if a soft voice (John's voice) inside his head reminds him that he still hasn't completely destroyed Moriarty's web, he turns a blind eye to it as well.)_

* * *

.

.

.

And love is blind.


	2. The death and resurrection

**The death and resurrection of Sherlock Holmes**

Sufficed to say, that particular bucket of cold water had been eye-opening.

_Mary, Mary, quite contrary... Just who exactly are you?_

I'm fine, Mycroft. Why wouldn't I be? Everything is under control.

* * *

Sherlock has always had a grudging respect for fire. Human civilisation wouldn't be possible without it. The wonderful internet wouldn't be possible without it. Magnificent experiments wouldn't be possible without it, and sometimes if he's lucky, he will get a brilliantly challenging burnt corpse!

However, at that moment, he has never hated anything more than the phenomenon known as fire.

It hurts John. That is enough reason for him to start hating it.

* * *

Sherlock has always had a certain admiration for ice. It destroys absolutely everything that stands in its way: calm, cold and utterly ruthless, emotionless as ever as the victims encased within die a slow and wonderful death, forever young, forever beautiful. If he's lucky, sometimes he will get a beautifully preserved body part. Nice preservatives ice has always been.

At that moment, he wishes that he could be like ice, unaffected and cold, because he's feeling _(internally, he cringes at the word)_ anything but as a physical fire licks his skin, trying to deter him from saving John, as an imaginary fire licks his heart, burning those cardiovascular muscles into ash, turning his reasoning and sharp mind and his precious logic into the emotions that he has always despised and panic and horror takes over and_

Shut up Mycroft. Shut up.

.

.

.

I'm fine.

_(because Sherlock Holmes is always fine and he is all fire and ice and he is Sherlock Holmes, so he is fine, all fine. Just fine.)_

The off switch was a nice guess. It's satisfying to see that he hasn't lost his touch yet. His gamble had paid off beautifully. Though he wouldn't mind it terribly had the bomb gone went off, the world could have ended right then and there and he still couldn't have cared less. He had John's forgiveness and that was all that mattered.

_Tut, tut, lying to yourself is unbecoming of a man like you__,__ Sherlock. Bit not good, as a matter of fact. Then again, hearing voices inside your head isn't exactly a good sign __of__ your sanity, isn't it? Maybe you should __arrange__ a__n appointment__with__ your doctor, Sherlock, now that he had forgiven you. Or had he? I'm still getting married to a__ random__ woman, and you'll still be alone and alone and alone and alone and __

* * *

Sherlock has always had a certain fascination for fire. Call him morbid if you want; it's not like he has ever cared about the rest of the world. Sure, it hurts John and it could be used for innumerable not-good things, plus getting burned isn't exactly a walk in the park, even for an extraordinary man such as Sherlock Holmes, but he simply can't help but be fascinated by the way it licks at his skin, turning it into a shriveling mess, or the way it licks at his heart, turning all those useless emotions _(internally, he scoffs at the word) _into a deadly resolve, clearing his mind of _(almost)_ all those clutters, leaving behind nothing but cold ice.

The true Sherlock Holmes _(no, not the one in that romanticized blog of yours, no, not the one in your nostalgia filter__ either,__ the real one, John, focus on me, only on me)_ in the end, hasn't been anything other than ice, has he?

He's drowning. Ice cold water invades his lungs, burning everything was Sherlock Holmes into nothing but ashes. Even so, he can't help but lament silently: "Ah, it's been a good life."

And then he wakes up, feeling more alive than ever before.

He is free, finally.


End file.
